Addicts, Anonymous
by FFcrazy15
Summary: Sam joins the League. (Slightly AU)


Addicts, Anonymous

_Summary: Sam joins the League. A slight AU where Sam's going cold-turkey doesn't work quite perfectly._

**Disclaimer: I neither own the rights to the Discworld universe nor any of its associated media, derivatives or products. I do not profit from this work.**

**A/N: Please note that I have no experience in alcoholism or Alcoholics Anonymous beyond the research I've done for this fic. I apologize for any inaccuracy or offense.**

* * *

Vetinari was frowning. This did not help Sybil's mood. If Havelock Vetinari was frowning, that could only spell disaster.

"But you must know where he is!"

"I assure you, Sybil, I do not. Have you checked the watch house?"

Her bosom swelled angrily. "Of course I've checked the watch house! I've checked every watch house in the city! I even sent a Clacks to the outpost on the Plains! He's _not _there!"

Vetinari steepled his fingers. "This is a matter for some concern," he conceded, "but Samuel Vimes is a…formidable man. I'm certain that even if he's gotten himself into a spot of trouble, he'll return posthaste with a worthy explanation."

"He's six _hours_ late!" The very words made tears prick in her eyes. _"Six hours, _Havelock! That's not a 'spot of trouble,' and besides, he would have sent for a messenger. None of the other watchmen know where he is." She wrung her hands. "Havelock, what if the assassins' guild has gotten to him?"

Vetinari, whose experiences with conversation were largely constituted of dry and subtle negotiations of the highest stakes, made the mistake of half-chuckling. "Samuel Vimes has not been assassinated."

Sybil bristled. "You don't know that!"

That wasn't right, she thought to herself, in the part of her brain that was still thinking logically through the mental fog of mounting dread. The Patrician knew everything. If Sam had been killed, Vetinari would probably have received a sympathies card by now.

"Sybil." To her immense surprise, the patrician stood and took her reassuringly by the shoulders. "I am _quite_ certain that Vimes has not been assassinated, because I have taken a out a policy on him."

"You– what?"

"The going price for Samuel Vimes's head is twenty thousand dollars." Sybil grimaced. She knew, of course, that Sam had a bounty with the assassins, but hearing the number was liable to keep her up at night. "I pay ten percent of that annually to the guild to turn down any contracts for himself, his immediate family and a few close friends, with the result that the guild stands to make a good deal more money by keeping Vimes alive than striking him dead."

"You…spent city money to protect Sam's life?"

"Goodness, no. The city is broke. The money comes from my personal finances—though admittedly I consider it more of a _loan,_ until the city can turn a profit again."

Sybil gaped. The patrician patted her shoulder.

"You mustn't tell him. He'd be terribly insulted."

"So…he isn't dead, then."

"Unless he's drunk some of the Ankh, I rather doubt it."

And just like that, Sybil knew where Sam was.

* * *

The bartender at The Bunch of Grapes looked up as the door opened, and felt his whole face change. Lady Sybil Ramkin, whom he had never before seen in person except in the windows of passing carriages (and of course that one time she'd been chained to a rock), gave him A Look. It was the sort of Look that, unbeknownst to him, had been cultivated over twenty years of shoving medicinal meatballs down the gullets of sick dragons.

He put down the glass he'd been wiping and decided to go do that thing he'd forgotten about in the kitchen. He wasn't sure what it was, but he figured he'd find out when he got there.

Sybil marched up to the counter, which was otherwise unoccupied save for one pathetic, slumped-over wretch who appeared barely conscious. Sybil couldn't, fully, blame him. It was the middle of the night, after all.

"Hello, Sam."

He looked up, blearily, through red-rimmed eyes. There were dirty tracks running down both cheeks.

"Sorry, dear."

His voice was a croak of shame. And Sybil immediately knew what had happened. Today, for some reason she didn't know, had turned into one of those Really Ugly Days about which Sam would never talk to her. Perhaps it was an Uglier Day than most. He'd finally broken down, lied to himself and stepped in for a drink thinking he could handle it, and then he'd had another, and by the third in he'd known he couldn't have handled it and that he'd have to tell her about it. The fourth drink had been to quench the shame, and when that hadn't worked he'd topped it with a fifth. By that point the shame and guilt had spiraled entirely out of control, and he'd started drinking to avoid thinking about the fact that he was drinking.

By the look of him, he'd polished off the full of the bottle an hour ago. Sobriety was beginning to worm its way back in. Sam grimaced and put his forehead back on his arm.

"I'm sorry," he croaked again, and then fell into a shuddering silence.

Sybil approached, wordlessly. She set a hand on his quaking shoulder.

"I'm sorry…"

"I forgive you. Stop apologizing, it won't make anything better."

He was crying in earnest now. Sybil sighed through her nose. Drunken Sam was always depressed.

"Gods…why don't you leave me, woman…"

"Sam, don't go there…"

"M'never home…I leave you with th'baby…I told you, Sybil, m'not the marrying sort…"

"Feeling sorry for yourself, or for me, won't help you sober up," she said, though her tone was still gentle. "Now come along. Can you walk?"

Like a guilty dog, Sam stumbled off the stool and followed her. She took his hand and steadied his shoulders.

"I'm gonna be better…I will, Sybil…I promise…"

"You're already getting better."

"I promise…"

Willikins was waiting outside with the carriage. Sybil hadn't wanted to wake any of the other staff. "He can walk, but he's not well," she informed the butler.

"I've left his nightshirt laid out on the bed for him, madame."

"Good man."

Together they bundled Sam into the carriage, where he slumped against Sybil's shoulder. She took off her cloak and tucked it over his shoulders as the carriage trundled off. He awoke briefly when they arrived at the manor, just long enough to stumble inside and put on his night-shirt (backwards) and then collapse into bed. Sybil debated about whether to get in with him. She was angry, yes…but, well. _For better and for worse,_ and all that.

He stirred again as she lay down. "D'you hate me?" she heard him mumble in the darkness.

Sybil kissed his shoulder. "Don't be silly, dear."

She wasn't sure if Sam had heard her. He'd fallen back asleep.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning—or, more accurately, brunch—was not a pleasant affair.

"Things need to change, Sam." He didn't meet her eyes. Sybil sighed. "Please look at me."

He did, through his eyelashes. His head was still bowed.

"I'm not going to kick you. You're not a naughty dragon who needs to be punished; you're my–"

"Your husband. I know. Sybil, I'm trying…"

"I was going to say my friend."

Sam paused. He hadn't been expecting that.

"I love you," she said gently. "I want you to be _happy._ Sam, you have a problem."

"I know. I know I–"

"And I don't mean with the drink."

Sam stopped. Then he frowned. "Is this some sort of trick question?"

"Sam, when you're unhappy you turn to distractions," Sybil explained. "I know you, I've watched it for several years now. You'll be…happy, for a while, and then you'll run away to your office or to the scene of a crime—or your Bearhugger's—instead of facing up to it."

"I…" Sam furrowed his brow. "Well…sure, but doesn't everyone?"

"No, Sam. Not everyone." She took his hand in hers. "And it _hurts_ me when you do that. Do you understand? Not because you broke your promise, but because you're—you're running _away_ from me. Into some other world, where I don't fit."

"I know it hurts you, I just…"

"So what is it you're so unhappy with, Sam? What is it you need to be distracted from so often?"

His gaze had dropped again, to her hand around his. He opened and then closed his mouth again. It sounded silly. It sounded trite.

"Go on…"

His shoulders had hunched. Suddenly, very suddenly, the little boy on Cockbill Street was back. Sam didn't want to meet his eyes. After all, they hadn't spoken in years.

"Sam?"

"Myself…"

His voice was rough and thick. Sybil fell quiet, watching his face.

"Myself," her husband sighed again. "I'm…unhappy with…myself, Sybil."

"You're the Commander of the City Watch. You have a lot to be proud of."

"No, I _wear_ the commander's badge. That's a different thing, Sybil. What you put in front of your name on letters, that's not– it's not who you really are."

"Then who are you really?"

"I'm a mean, selfish, half-witted little man. And everyone knows it. And so do you."

It was the first time he'd said it aloud, and it felt like vomiting. His mouth tasted bad and his stomach hurt as soon as it was out, but at least he didn't feel so sick inside.

"You're also kind," Sybil said quietly. "And hard-working, and good and fair."

"I'm not that good. And I'm definitely not kind."

"Maybe not in the way you talk, Sam, but in the way you treat people, yes, you are. You're possibly one of the kindest people in this city."

"Sometimes on the job, I see a side of me I really didn't like." The words wrenched their way out of his mouth, while the boy in Cockbill Street watched him with angry eyes. "He's cruel, and bitter, and maybe he's what I need right then to keep me alive but he's not the sort of man you'd want to bring home to your wife, alright?"

She squeezed his hand. Now that he was talking, it felt worse to stop.

"And he isn't _evil._ I almost wish he were. I'm a copper, I can deal with evil people. But that man isn't evil, he's just _mean. _He'd been small for so long that he likes watching big people suffer." Sam swallowed. "He likes making people _pay."_ At last, he looked up again. "And I don't like men like that, Sybil. They scare the _hell_ out of me."

Sybil sighed and nodded. "I've met that man, Sam."

"I don't like 'im."

"Neither do I."

"I want him _gone."_ His face had turned hard. "I want him out of my _house,_ I want him away from my _family._ But he follows me home."

"And so you try to lock him out on the front porch."

He sighed. "...Yes."

"Sam, has it ever occurred to you that you shouldn't be trying to fight this Nasty Mr. Vimes on your own?"

"Of course it has. But I didn't want you anywhere near him."

"Because you're afraid of him. That fear is giving him power."

"Sybil–"

"Sam, there's a Nasty Lady Ramkin, too."

"That's not the same," he said immediately, but Sybil cut him off.

"Oh? Remember those big people he likes watching suffer, Sam? Well, it will behoove you to know that some big people _like_ watching little people _starve."_

Sam swallowed. Sybil had a fierce look in her eyes.

"Power, Sam, is addictive to people of every stripe." She spread her hands. "But do I try to lock her in the dragon shed? Hm? No, I do not. I let her in out of the cold and make her sit down and bloody well keep her mouth _shut. _And when she gets out of hand I have a little talk with her. I tell her, 'Sybil, this might be who everyone around you is, and who they have all decided to be, but _you _are not going to be this way. Even if it takes a very long time, you are going to _change_ and _grow, _because fate might have dealt you your hand but she doesn't decide how you play.'"

He didn't answer. He knew what she was saying, of course, but it somehow felt…it felt too _easy._ That angry, violent boy from Cockbill Street, the one who once kicked at a dog for no other reason than that the dog had a scrap and he didn't, the angry man who skulked in the shadows of that road could not, he felt, be pacified as easily as a money-hungry little girl who asked her father to buy her pet dragons to breed for purity.

"Sam. Ignoring that part of yourself–"

"I'm not ignoring it," he interjected. "I'm hiding him from _you._ I don't want him _meeting_ you!"

"Fine," said Sybil calmly, "so when he comes pounding on our door one night—because he will, Sam, believe you me—what are you going to do?"

"Then he and I will go for a little walk."

"And he'll beat the snot out of you and leave you bleeding in my garden."

_"So long as he doesn't hurt you."_

A stalemate of staring developed over the table.

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Sybil challenged.

"One of the things," he shot back.

It had become a fight. A knock-down, drag-out, streets-of-Ankh-Morpork fight of the wills, to find out who was right, and who was crazy.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Keep him locked in."

"Have you ever raised dragons, Sam?"

"No dear, only ever watched you do it."

"Do you know what happens when a dragon gets too big for his pen?"

"I imagine he explodes."

"Precisely," said Sybil curtly.

"Alright," said Sam coldly. "So I suppose we should just let the dragons roam free in the manor, should we? Let them torch a couple curtains? Set Young Sam's bed on fire?"

"Did I say that?"

"I don't see another alternative, _darling."_

_"You house-train them, Sam."_

Sam gaped. Sybil met his gaze.

"Dammit, woman, I am not a dragon!"

"Oh, yes you are!" The fury of a thousand valkyries had flooded her eyes, and suddenly Vimes had the impression that his wife was, if not the woman whose face had launched a thousand ships, certainly the woman who'd captained the head of the fleet. "You've got a belly full of fire, you're descended of a long and frankly unstable stock, you _smoke_ like a chimney and you require delicate handling lest you explode! You, Samual Vimes, are _draco rex!"_

He slammed his hands down on the table as he stood. "Then why the hell did you marry me?! Dragons aren't supposed to be in the house, Sybil! You keep them in pens! You lock them up! Because they're _dangerous!"_

"Because, Samuel Vimes, you are also a _man!"_ Sybil was on her feet now as well. "A _good_ man, a _loving_ man, who believes in doing what is _right_ even when it is difficult! Because I grew up with dragons of all breeds, Sam, and a lot of them are mindless, hungry animals, dressed up in fancy collars and bred for good manners, but not you!"

"You don't know that!"

"I _do_ know that! But I'm worried for you! You keep insisting I don't need to be, but I know dragons! You can't hide them, you can't run from them, all you can do is point a big stick at them and tell them to _SIT DOWN and BEHAVE!"_

Sam sat down. He didn't even think about it. He just obeyed. Sybil stared at him, her bosom heaving.

"Sam." Slowly, she sat down, and took his hand again. "You're a dangerous man. You're an _angry_ man. You have the capacity to do awful things. But you _haven't."_ She squeezed his hand gently. "You need to have more faith in yourself. But you also need to tame the monsters inside you, instead of just running away from them."

"But what if they hurt you?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm a grown woman, Sam, not some fainting daisy. If you get out of line, I _will _leave you. Rest assured of that."

She smiled at him, a bit wryly, and Sam felt every muscle in his body relax one after the other. A weariness swept through him, and he sagged in his chair. Right. This was the woman who chose to raise dragons, after all.

"I'm scared of him," he sighed, looking up into the ceiling. "That—other Sam. I don't want to become him."

"I know." Sybil chuckled tiredly. "I don't like that other Lady Ramkin, either."

"Did I see a hint of her just now?"

"A hint. I'm sorry for yelling at you."

"It's alright."

They shared a tentative smile. "So," he sighed. "Where do we start?"

"Well for one," said Sybil, a note of hesitation creeping into her voice, "you could…start talking to me, about what happens at your work."

"But– Sybil, you don't–"

"I do. Sam, I really do. Especially the ugly bits, the things that I see weighing you down when you walk through that door at night. It's been…_destroying_ me, lying next to you every night and knowing there's nothing I can do to help you. I miss you, Sam."

He eyed her warily. "You really want to hear all that?"

"I want to know what you're thinking." She bit her lip. "I don't want this to be the sort of marriage where two people share a bed and not much else."

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, and then nodded. "Alright."

"And, second…well, you got in the habit of drinking to help you sleep," she said nervously. "And even I know your work is ugly, Sam. I don't want you to fall back into that."

"I'm giving it up. I _have _given it up. I fell off the wagon, sure, but I didn't sell the horse."

"Yes, but I think you could do with some, well, like-minded encouragement." She grimaced and then said in a rush: "Sam, I want you to join the Temperance League."

He stared. "What– you mean the black ribboners?" Sybil nodded. "Sybil, that's for vampires, not alcoholics!"

"Well, yes, but I think if there were a similar sort of program for heavy drinkers, it would do you some good. And since at present there is not…" His expression had turned dubious, and she insisted: "Sam, if anybody would understand what you're going through, it's the League!"

"If anybody saw me going into a bloody temperance meeting–"

"They're completely anonymous. Not all of the members even wear the ribbon."

Sam chewed his lip. "I don't feel like telling a bunch of strangers about my problems."

"This isn't something you can work through on your own. You need _help_ Sam." She pinked. "And, well…it might make it easier for you to…well, talk to me."

She watched her husband debate this. His eyes had found that little place on the wall, just above her head, so she knew he was weighing the matter back and forth.

"It really means that much to you?"

"It would mean the world to me."

* * *

Even in plainclothes, the patrons of Biers recognized Vimes the minute he walked in the door of the pub. It would not be true to say the record scratched so much as to say that it, very intentionally, did _not_ scratch; the rest of the bar continued on its predetermined track of quiet drinking and ominous low-voiced conversation, but every eye was certainly on him. Sam, for his part, gave them an uncomfortable nod, and then made his way to the bar. The other patrons seemed to loosen up at that; if the watch commander wanted a drink, well, they couldn't stop him, and at any rate he seemed to look as discomfited as they felt. _You don't acknowledge I'm here,_ that nod seemed to say, _and I won't notice that suspicious-looking box under your chair or that you've got an extra ace poking out of your boot._

The bartender, an Igor, looked up as he approached. "Yeth…?" he drawled, clearly unimpressed.

"I'm looking for the temperance meeting."

"Why…?"

Sam leaned closer. "Because I'd like to learn how to be, wh'ozz-the-word, _temperate."_

The igor gave him a suspicious look. Then, at length, he jerked his head to a door in the far back corner of the bar. It was, fittingly, shrouded in shadow.

"Thanks." Sam kept his head down, determinedly not looking at anyone's face too hard, and made his way to the door. There was a faint hum of discussion coming from behind it. He slipped inside.

The back room of Biers, usually left unused except for nefarious plotting and birthday parties, was at present full of a few dozen vampires. Sam stood awkwardly at the door and watched them. Many of them were young, as vampires went, ranging in appearance from a teenager to a few approaching middle age. A small handful were aged or older. One, a vampiress he had met earlier in the day and whom he knew to be the chairwoman, was moving chairs and stools into the rings of a circle. Sam approached and offered to help; it was better than standing there.

"Oh, Mr. Vimes! I'm delighted you could make it tonight." The chairwoman gave him a smile that communicated both genuine happiness as well as fact that she knew he had almost turned back at the door. "We're always so glad to see new faces."

"Well, I imagine mine might be newer than most."

She laughed, her long white incisors gleaming. "Indeed."

He kept his back to the crowd as much as possible while situating the chairs, but by the time the chairwoman called the meeting to order he was already getting a few odd looks. He kept his eyes on his shoes while the secretary read off a few public notices, and then the chairwoman stood.

"Thank you, Marguerite. Hello, everyone, and welcome to the Ankh-Morpork chapter of the Temperance League. I'm your chairwoman, and I am a recovering addict." She gave them a cheery, albeit fanged, smile, and Sam couldn't help but watch once again as the light glittered off those two little points jutting below her lip. "I see a lot of familiar faces here tonight, and a few new ones. We're glad to have you." She clapped her hands. "Now! I'd like to invite Mr. Dietrich von Blintz to read the Thirteen Maxims…"

A list of axioms was recited, most of which went in and out of Vimes's ears without sticking; the few that he did catch were along the lines of _"Each chapter has one purpose: to bring freedom to the still enthralled,"_ and _"We will always maintain the anonymity of our members." _The last maxim, which did stick, ran something along the lines of:

_"We commit to supporting one another and our living neighbors, so as not to live in vain."_

_In vein,_ Sam groaned internally. _Ye gods, there's going to be puns._ But another thought niggled at his brain: _Sybil asked me to take this seriously. I made her a promise…_

"Thank you, Dietrich. Now, would any of the newcomers tonight like to introduce themselves? We really do encourage it."

Her eyes flickered to Sam's, who had sidled his way into a seat in the very back row. He'd heard as a child that vampires could control you with their minds; as a public figure he'd always been too embarrassed to ask whether this were true or not, but in that moment he realized it didn't matter. Social pressure would do well enough.

He stood up. Every head turned at the noise, and the room descended into pure silence. Nobody could do pure silence like vampires.

"Er– hello," Sam muttered, looking around the room. Thirty vampires blinked back at him. He glanced to the chairwoman, who nodded encouragingly. "Er– my name is Sam Vimes, and I'm– well, I'm not an addict, per se, but I am an alcoholic, so…"

"But he's human," a voice called from the crowd.

"Mr. Vimes has come to us on a specific request," explained the chairwoman. "As the human community has not yet set up a league of their own to combat substance use, we have decided to welcome him into the League on a trial basis." She nodded at Sam, who sat down as quickly as was politely possible.

The meeting continued. Following the mortifying awkwardness of the introduction, it actually wasn't too bad; he got a few curious looks, which was to be expected, but apparently the League members respected things like _order_ and _authority_ enough to follow the chairwoman's lead. Some more speeches were read—at least, Sam thought they were speeches; they appeared to come out of a little booklet the chairwoman had brought with her—about the importance of "avoiding the myth of 'just one drink,'" and despite the way his face heated at the topic, he began to feel…well, to feel more comfortable. It was sort of like morning briefings at the watch house, only he was one of the sergeants, not, for once, the commander.

Stories were shared. Sam listened, almost rapt with macabre interest, as one man talked of being driven out of Bönk at point of pitchfork for his midnight heists. "I never meant to hurt anyvun," he concluded. "But I did. I hurt my human friends, and my family most of all. Ze children still vake up at night in fear zat ze mobs vill burn ze house. I zought I could control it, but it controlled_ me."_

The chairwoman nodded. "That brings up a good question. Why do we give in to that myth? If we know it's hurt us before, what compels us to give in again?"

"Hunger," someone called.

"Loneliness."

"Exhaustion."

The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. Once again, the eyes turned to look. The chairwoman nodded.

"That's a good point, Sam. Talk more about that."

"Well, it's just– it makes sense, doesn't it?" With the eyes on him, he suddenly felt very self-conscious—and yet, he felt, deep in his bones, that by the way these people were nodding they _understood._ The words came in a rush. "You've had a long day at work, or maybe the wife's on your case or there's a problem with your boss—well, a thousand things. And it just—makes it all better. It's always made it all better. Except for when you sober up again and find out it's made everything a hell of a lot worse."

"So what you're saying is it's a habit," the chairwoman intuited. "A habit developed in hard times, which calls back to us when times get hard again." Sam nodded. "How do you try to deal with that, Samuel?"

"...It's hard," he admitted. "I got used to drinking when I was a boy and, well, I still can't kick the habit."

"And when did you start drinking heavily?" she asked. "Had something major happened around that time? Some significant life change or loss?"

Sam stared. "...My mother had just died."

The chairwoman nodded. "Oftentimes a feeling of loneliness or uncertainty can trigger or exacerbate a habit of dependency. For many of us, it was being chased into the mountains or the accidental slaughter of our village communities after rising from the grave." Vimes blinked. "Dependency is a habit which often arises in a vacuum of community and then enmeshes the user further into isolation. Here at the League, we strive to create the community many of us lack. It may sound saccharine, but when your life is full, there's less room for hunger."

"It got better, after I married my wife," Sam admitted. "I want to be better. For her."

"You haff to vant it for you, too," a voice piped up, and he looked over. It was that funny man with the camera, the _Times _iconographer—Mr. Chriek, Sam believed his name was. "If you only vant to appease your vomman, it von't stick. You haff to believe zat your life vill be _better_ vizout it."

There was a chorus of affirmative murmurs. "Will it?" Sam asked, honestly. "Everyone says it will, and– and I've been doing better. I like my life more now, for the most part. But when everything goes turtle-side, I just…"

"Returning to the habit out of comfort or release is a temporary respite from the problems of real life," said the chairwoman wisely. "They will still be there when the last drop is gone, and you may well have hurt other people in the meantime."

"So what do I do? I mean, sometimes, the stress…"

There was another chorus of murmurs. The chairwoman nodded to the photographer again. "Otto, I believe you have some experience in this?"

The iconographer shrugged. "Stress is natural in important vork. Alzough, I suppose in your job it is even more so, yes?"

"You can say that again." Some laughter. Despite himself, Vimes smiled.

"You need a—och, vhat is ze vord—a spigot?"

"Outlet," someone corrected.

"A new _outlet_ for your stress. You drink to relax, yes?" Vimes nodded. "Zen vhat you must do is find a new way to relax, a vay zat really works. As ve say–"

_"Release, replace, reinvent,"_ the room chorused. Mr. Chriek smiled his toothy smile.

"Exactly. Find a hobby. Go on holiday. And for ze gods' sakes, ze rest of ze vorld takes octeday off! Even ze press sleeps on ze veekends!"

"If I did that, I think the watch would crumble around my ears."

A titter ran around the room, rather like laughter. Sam didn't like it. "What?" he demanded.

"You are afraid to relinquish control," said the iconographer with a smile. "Vell, vell. Humans and vampires are perhaps not so different, Meester Vimes."

"Otto, no teasing."

"Och, sorry, Madame."

"Reckoning with the fear of losing control over our lives is a common step in a vampire's journey to sobriety," the chairwoman explained. "Early trauma—untimely death, involuntary reawakening, losing self-control into a first feeding and the subsequent rejection by our communities—all of these things can stimulate a deep, almost subconscious craving for certainty and control, or at least the illusion of it."

And Sam remembered being hungry, and cold, and having no money for his mother's medicine, and a funeral on top of frozen ground. And he nodded.

"Right. I guess I know what you mean."

* * *

The meeting ended half an hour later. To Vimes's surprise, there were refreshments, in the form of cookies and hot cocoa. He did not partake, instead hovering near the door and debating whether it would be impolite to leave. Sybil had asked him to go; she hadn't said he had to stay behind for the optional tea-party.

Now that the talks were over, his discomfort had returned. That Commander Samuel Vimes of the City Watch was not a huge fan of vampires was common knowledge. What _wasn't_ common knowledge was how damned aware he was of it. Sam had always prided being a cut above the ilk of Rust and Lord de Worde, to name just a few, but when it came to the undead and vampires in particular…to Sam, it all rather looked like the worst form of aristocracy. Of course, he knew that wasn't fair. Watching the young temperance members mill about, exchanging recipes for chocolate souflés (chocolate seemed to be popular among the black ribboners) and speculate on upcoming street football matches, he couldn't help but feel, rather distinctly, that these were _ordinary people. _People who had let him into their private club, despite his species and reputation. Sam was beginning to sense rather keenly that he owed them the same favor.

"Cocoa?"

He looked over. It was the iconographer, holding out a mug. Sam accepted it warily. "Thanks."

"It's not poisoned." Mr. Chriek took a long draught and smacked his lips. He had a cocoa mustache, Vimes noted. "Go on, try some."

He did. It was delicious.

"Lady Margolotta's own recipe," the iconographer said with a nod. Vimes frowned.

"Did you just read my mind?"

"No. Just your expression."

Vimes peered around the room. People were talking and laughing, and a few were flirting over their mugs of cocoa. It all looked very…cozy. Sam mistrusted cozy. "Tell me, Mr. Chriek, does this really work?"

"Och, yes, Mr. Vimes. If you vork at it."

"And what if I decide to 'vork' at it without coming to the meetings?" When the vampire didn't answer right away, he looked over. Mr. Chriek was giving him a very steady look. "What?"

"You are among friends, Mr. Vimes. You do not need your pride here."

Sam's face burned.

"You do not haff to come. Nobody can force you. But I zink you know you are fooling yourself. Maybe you vill not go back to ze drink, I cannot say. But zere are ozzer kinds of addictions, Mr. Vimes, and some of zem, zey vill hurt you just as badly in ze end. A vampire must replace his addiction viz somezing less harmful, but ze reasons ve drink? Zose remain ze same. You cannot get rid of zem merely by putting avay ze bottle."

There was a horrible sinking feeling in Vimes's stomach. _Oh, gods, he's right. I might go to the office now instead of the bar, but he's right. I didn't stop drinking, I just found something else that was just as intoxicating…_

Then, as fast a summer breeze blowing away a storm, Mr. Chriek smiled. "Anywho! It is good cocoa, yes? You know ze secret, it is _Borogravian_ chocolate! Smuggled in! Lady Margolotta insists; ve get a stipend every monz from Übervald for it…"

As the vampire continued to ramble, Vimes felt the weariness begin to leave his bones. He even found that he was smiling, a tiny, relaxed little smile that just barely upturned the corners of his mouth. If anybody understood how it felt not to like a part of themselves, he mused, it was the bloodsuckers—but here they all were, drinking cocoa and thinking up supportive puns.

As far as taming dragons went, he thought as he took another drink, it could be a lot worse.

* * *

Sybil was waiting up for him when he got back, reading in bed by lamplight. She closed her book when he walked in and bestowed on him a nervous smile.

"Hello darling. How did the meeting go?"

"Alright," Vimes said vaguely as he pecked her cheek, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling off his socks. He heard Sybil moving around behind him, and waited for her to start talking about something domestic.

She didn't, and it took him several seconds to figure out why. He looked over his shoulder. Sybil was, very determinedly, _not_ giving him a wounded look.

"...More than alright, actually," he said slowly, and watched as her eyes lit up. "There were, um, more people there than I thought…'course, I can't tell you any of their names…"

Sybil's eyes were sparkling now. He wondered whether those were tears of happiness, or just a trick of the light.

"And, er, I just sort of talked to them. Some of them had good advice."

"Oh?" she said hoarsely.

"Yeah. Er, I think I'll go back, you know, next week…I mean, for the cocoa if nothing else…"

"Oh, really? Is it Lady Margolotta's recipe?"

"With the smuggled chocolate?"

Sybil sighed dreamily. "I only ever had it twice in school. Seraphine managed to work out the recipe. We used to call it, 'Better-Than-Sex-Hot-Cocoa.'"

"Oh? And was it?"

"Well, Sam, it has been rather a long while since I've had it…"

"Really?" He grinned, moving closer. "Well, how's about I bring you some back from the next meeting, and you can compare?"

Sybil's lips twitched. "I'll still need something to compare it_ to."_

"Sybil Ramkin, are you attempting to seduce me?"

"Attempting? Darling, you make it sound like I haven't succeeded."

Sam chuckled. Their eyes met. "This wall will go away, won't it, Sam?" said Sybil softly.

"I'll tear it down brick by brick if I have to, Sybil. I give you my word."

"Now that's gold standard," she murmured.

They kissed again. What was meant to be a quick peck turned longer, slower. When they parted, Sybil had That Look in her eyes, her face framed in golden candlelight.

"Come here."

He actually blushed, Sybil noticed, and hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "You…really still want to be with me, then? Even though I let you down?"

"Samuel, darling, I don't know who put those lies into your head, but hear me clear: you are _worthy _of being _wanted. _And what's more," she brushed his hair back from his eyes, "you are worthy of being _loved."_

"Even though I'm—I have some problems?"

"You're working on them." Sybil kissed his cheek, and Sam felt the world go soft. "That's what matters."

_Fin._

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. Again, this is slightly AU, and my apologies for any inaccuracy in the portrayal of alcoholism; this was mostly meant to be a character study of Sam and Lady Ramkin's relationship. Please leave a review and tell me what you thought!**


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